Those Who Play With Fire
by Cue.Card
Summary: The Indigo League has passed through several hands recently. Misty finds herself trapped in a web of confusion and mystery at the League's attempt for reform, the Saffron Pokemon Academy. Egoshipping.
1. A Note on the Story's Age

**The Obligatory Note, From an Author who Hasn't Updated in Years...**

So… I see this story hasn't been updated since… July 22, 2008, apparently. What's up with that?

Well, a lot of things, truth be told. But I doubt you're in anyway interested in them, huh? Don't worry - I won't bore you. Just know that I had my reasons... and more importantly, that I'm back with a strong interest in this story. =3

So, without further ado… I present to you…

An entirely new story!

_What….?_

Just kidding. It's _A La Claire Fontaine_. Only this time (ironically enough, if you were aware that 'A La Claire Fontaine' means 'At the Clear Fountain'), it's called _Those Who Play With Fire_.

That is not to say that its old title was not fitting. It is definitely still fitting. But I want to give the story a bit of a fresh breath of air for its second little jaunt around the block, if you understand me. :)

I'm also going to take a little time in posting the chapters, despite the fact that the story is almost entirely written (lots of it is even already uploaded here, just not posted). And that's mostly just to keep my sanity, while I try and perfect it a little more. It's my baby, after all, and I want to do it justice this time.

So I know what you're thinking... if you're posting the chapters slowly, starting from Chapter 1... I won't have to read it in weeks. That's not entirely true. The re-written chapters (especially 3 - and the prologue which didn't even exist in the old version) are completely redone. The ending has changed a little since the original posting, and the new chapters reflect those changes. :) But it's your choice. I'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult to jump straight into the new stuff, though the pacing is quite different.

Anyway... without further ado... go read the sparkly, new prologue!_  
_


	2. Prologue

**A/N**: So I don't know if I'm the one playing with fire here or not. This is a bit of a risky prolgoue, I think, but it is what it is, and I'm not changing it. I'll post the first chapter again in a day or two, and perhaps this will seem less... gruesome? Intense? I'm not sure... Anyway, more importantly, this story is an **Egoshipping** (that's Misty x Gary, if you weren't sure) story, first and foremost. There will, inevitably, be some **Pokeshipping** business running around, but relativley it's going to be background noise**, **okay? Hopefully that doesn't bother you. =3 **  
**

**Disclaimer: **I own the scenario. Other than that, I've gone and taken a bunch of characters owned by other people, and stuck them together to see what would happen. It's like one big party.

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**Those Who Play With Fire  
**

**Prologue - It's Only a Problem When it Happens to You.**

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The bullet sang a deafening song of its freedom, released from the confines of the cool metal barrel of the '45. It was accompanied by the roaring cheer of the pistol and little tendrils of smoke snaking upwards towards the heavens from the mouth of the pistol, celebrating the bullet's flight.

The gun could never love the bullet…

The world was dark, trapped in the confines of the bottommost floor of the Indigo League Headquarters. The power had been cut; the laboratory – usually instilled with the sharp tang of alcohol due to the high demand for sterility – reeked of the pungent odor of death.

It was an overwhelming, suffocating, and pungent stench that would not be displaced. It would hang heavy in the air for days – weeks – to come, and would quite possibly never vacate the room. No, the death seen by the laboratory would never leave; it would never allow the occupants of the room to forget. Never.

The sudden and unprecedented loss of power had caused a surge in the power supply leading to several of the cloning-experiment capsules. The sudden pressure exerted on the fragile glass tubes had caused them to shatter. Lifeless bodies, bathed in synthetic amniotic fluid and broken glass, littered the floor.

Murder was an act of deception when done right. It was like a magic show, meant to entertain not only the orchestrator, but the audience. _Follow me, and just see if you can catch me_, it said. The act invoked a challenge – a challenge with deadly consequences if not taken up. It was one giant game of _Ratata Trap_, using human life as game tokens – what could make the challenge more interesting?

There was mystery, suspense, horror… the three most popular genres of the day in literature and cinema. People were _entranced_ by death… it was simply the job of the orchestrator to entertain, was it not? There were dim lights, confined spaces, achieving of the impossible… the three most common elements in the biggest fiction franchises of the modern age.

So maybe it was the fault of the people, not the orchestrator pulling the trigger. _Don't shoot the messenger_. The people asked… and they received. Who was the orchestrator to refuse them what they craved? There was a basic want for death – a basic want for blood to be spilt.

Yes, death was entertainment – provided you weren't the victim.

It was full of illusions. One moment, there was a rosy tinge to the lips, a sparkle in the eye; the next, the body was pale and cold. One moment, all was good and whole in the world; the next, all light had receded for fear of the encroaching darkness.

One moment, there was life; the next, irreversible death…

_Don't follow the light… _people approaching death would say; was that to say… _follow the dark?_

It was all held in the hands of the grand connoisseur, the orchestrator, the magician, the ringmaster, the pseudo-_god_. It was all held in the hands of the one prepared to distribute perverted justice. It was all held in the hands of the one who waved the wand and separated the soul from the body, then disappeared without a trace.

It was all held in the bloodstained fingers curling around the bloodstained trigger.

Any man could play God. Any man could give life. Any man could tare life away again. Perhaps it was just the belief that man could control his own destiny that drove that finger down on that trigger. Maybe it was just that _need_ to control _life_.

Only now there were no smoky mirrors. There were no trap doors or secret compartments. The volunteer meant to cheat death would never escape death's clutches. There were no rehearsals, only performances. There was only center stage. And oh, what a performance it would be.

Time and time again, that silver bullet sang its tainted song, seeking, craving that sweet, sweet copper tang of blood hidden beneath milky skin. It weaved a vision of a bottomless mirror of deep crimson, pooling at the juncture between neck and shoulder, draining from the entry wound in the chest.

The bullet called, and the blood answered…

The two lovers found one another in a warm, pulsing chamber of the human heart, the bullet encased in the loving embrace of the blood. The tattered and torn skin could no longer encase the pulsing, battering song of the blood – the pressure of the love between the bullet and the blood.

Shaking fingers staunched the blood flow, but it still quickly spread, staining the white lab coat of the victim in little rivulets of pock-marked death. It was a spreading stain, like a blooming flower over the heart, giving rise to many thousands more.

The blood rolled in little ruby rivers between those shaking fingers and down, stark scarlet against pale snow. It was unnatural, the loss of sight in those dark hazel eyes, the loss of touch in those thin fingers, the loss of smell in that button nose, the delicate mouth working in a soundless scream as death approached…

But she could still hear.

The grand orchestrator smiled gaily as the performance fell from on high to a close. The greatest challenge always presented itself in the end – in the escape, in the careful trail left for the so-called "authorities". The authorities playing right into the palm of the orchestrator's hand.

One foot kicked unfeelingly at a blood-soaked shoulder, thinking the last vestiges of life to have escaped. The victim's chocolate curls tumbled about her head like a corrupted halo; her head lolled lifelessly to one side, her cheeks sticky with blood.

The orchestrator laughed mechanically, shattering the solace of silence in a single breath. The cruel sounds echoed, unable to escape from the stone confines of the enclosed laboratory. It was the laughter of a crazed human, control over the mind long since relinquished. It was a laugh that ached in the bone, and chilled the skin. Even as the original laughter ceased, the echo continued, on and on…

"For future reference, _doctor_," the orchestrator began bemusedly, as though it truly were a simple _checkmate_ in chess, or the roll of a seven in a game of dice. The orchestrator kneeled down to be more level with the corpse, eyes wide and unseeing. "_Pokémon_ don't kill on demand."

The would-be god carefully withdrew a folded piece of aqua-colored paper, and blew on the edges slightly. As the chill breath passed over the paper, it flickered slightly, almost curling in on itself to escape the frigid breath of the killer.

Without more preamble, the orchestrator placed the carefully folded paper over the entry wound of the woman. As the still warm, pulsing blood soaked into the creases of the folds, the paper unfolded into a crude, star-shaped flower, the roots of which were deep scarlet, like veins.

"You can site that _delectable_ little piece of information, my dear, to _La Fleur de L'eau_."

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**Translation Note: **_"La Fleur de L'eau"_ is French for "_Water Flower", _translated roughly (and intentionally inaccurately) from my highschool-level French. :)


End file.
